


predation

by blooddrool



Series: Jonah Week [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampire Sex, Vampires, its just porn man idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: Mordechai feeds like he fights like he fucks.
Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Series: Jonah Week [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789657
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	predation

**Author's Note:**

> Jonah Magnus Week day 7
> 
> Prompt: Mordechai | "Vampire"

Mordechai feeds like he fights like he fucks.

Slowly. Leisurely. Dreadfully thorough in the exhausting of his prey, his opponent, his partner. Conquests, all of them — felled with a patience that borders on absurdity. Unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.

And he does, Jonah supposes, gasping and sweating into the sheets where Mordechai has him pinned, very nearly conquered once more. Mordechai lips at his neck — has been lipping at his neck for so long now that Jonah’s skin feels raw, buffed angry and red beneath the scratch of his beard and moustache — and fucks into him with such an easy, languid sort of control that Jonah thinks he can feel something coming loose inside him, some part of him separating away, detaching, unscrewing more and more with each deep, rolling thrust.

Mordechai tongues the line of Jonah’s throat, and even the wettest, softest drags of it feel like they must be drawing blood. Jonah shakes beneath him, his voice pushed far beyond the point of speaking or moaning or grunting or keening. 

Mordechai is silent. He is always silent. Jonah feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His own struggle for air, the only sound to be heard over the slick rasp of skin against skin, the sticky slide of Mordechai’s cock coring into him, come-wet and huge.

Mordechai’s arm shifts where it’s hooked under Jonah’s knee, spreads him impossibly wider, spears him impossibly deeper. The joints in Jonah’s hips ache. He can feel Mordechai’s cock battering at him, bludgeoning him from the inside, stirring his guts up. He’s spread so wide, all the way up into him, that he worries he’ll never close up again. Worries that he’ll be wounded like this forever. Worries his body will one day give up the chance to be hurt like this all over again.

Mordechai bumps hard at Jonah’s jaw with the bridge of his nose, and Jonah is so boneless that his head tilts away easily. Away and back, chin pointed up at the ceiling. Mordechai’s hips stall then, sheathed in him tight and flush, grinds, and Jonah can’t so much as manage a whine. He exhales, instead, breath he didn’t even know he had all shuddering out of him. Mordechai rumbles against him, purrs his satisfaction directly into Jonah’s bloodstream. Another thing for him to take, Jonah thinks, thoughts stringy and abstract. Another thing to take back.

Mordechai lets Jonah’s leg go. Jonah can’t keep it up. He lets it slip limply down Mordechai’s waist, rest in the juncture of his hip. Feels Mordechai’s hands wrap around his wrists instead, placing them up, one after the other, on either side of his head. Holds one there firm and strong and takes Jonah by the chin with his opposite hand, fingers spread wide over his cheek.

Lowers himself. Disperses his weight until his chest presses down heavily on Jonah’s own, crushing him _just so_ — just enough for Jonah’s breathing to turn to wheezing, just enough for Jonah’s heart to panic in his chest. And in his gut. And in his wrists. And in his neck.

He twists Jonah’s head further, stretches the line of his throat to its limits, stretches it a little further. Jonah feels the pinch and pop of his cervical vertebrae in the back of his neck, wonders if Mordechai will keep going. Keep pushing, keep twisting, until something gives. Something that isn't supposed to. Wonders if he’d fuck him through it.

He would, Jonah knows. He would. Kill him before he ever got his teeth in him. Come in him dead and limp.

But he won’t. He doesn’t and he won’t. Pursuit predation loses its appeal once the prey stops getting back up.

Mordechai breathes against Jonah’s chafed skin, just there over his pulse point — slow and deliberate in the way that all of Mordechai’s breathing is deliberate. Jonah can hear it when his lips pull back over his teeth, wet and clean, when his mouth opens wide, cavernous and endlessly, _endlessly_ hungry.

Jonah couldn’t tense if he wanted to — _doesn’t_ want to — but still he constricts around Mordechai’s cock when he bites down, opens his mouth to make no sound at all. Mordechai’s teeth sink into Jonah’s neck with bruising force, tear into him with such careful, perfect precision. Through flesh and muscle, seeking out the swell of his blood, the welling-up of it around his teeth.

Mordechai’s grip tightens around Jonah’s wrist and jaw. He feels the shifting roll of his shoulders through his chest, the horrible stretch of him when his hips twitch.

And then his teeth are pulling back, dragging so painfully out of him, only to be replaced by the wet seal of his mouth, the slick, violating probe of his tongue where it pushes into one of the wounds.

Mordechai sucks hard, draws Jonah’s blood into his mouth hot and red and living, swallows it down, works his saliva in under Jonah’s skin to take its place. Growls deep from his belly as he does.

And Jonah gapes, open mouthed, at nothing. Feels the pulling, the draining, feels the venom swirl and sink down into him. Feels it spread through him, tug at that dark, quiet corner of him. Blanket him in it just as he is blanketed by Mordechai himself. His eyes fall out of focus, lashes shuttering low.

Jonah clicks his mouth shut, swallows beneath Mordechai’s mouth, feels the sharp stab of pain that comes when Mordechai works his tongue into the other hole, pushing at its borders, stretching them to point of tearing around the intrusion.

In him here, too, Jonah thinks to himself. In him. Cock and teeth, cock and tongue. His fingers curl where Mordechai still has his hand pinned, no more than a gentle flex, but Jonah is sure that Mordechai can feel it by the way he squeezes.

He shifts again, gets his knees under him, graceful and strong like a lion rising to its feet, bloody-mouthed and ethereally handsome, even dug in as he is, halfway through Jonah’s body like he’s trying to meet himself somewhere in the middle. Like some sick ouroboros, Jonah thinks. Wearing him out; wearing him well.

Mordechai releases Jonah’s wrist, takes him up by the leg once more, jackknifes him at the hip. Makes it hurt, for both their benefits. He pulls his cock out to the head, and Jonah thinks briefly that it might be one of the worst things he’s ever felt — the loss of it, the hollow ache it leaves behind, scooping him out. Leaving him empty where he shouldn’t be, even without a cock stuffed up in him.

And filling him brutally when he fucks back in, jarring him on his cock, driving him up into the searching, prodding, sucking of Mordechai’s mouth and tongue.

Jonah is draining — can feel himself fading, slipping, easing into darkness and silence, suspended there between those two bright, shining points of pain. Mordechai moves over him, in him, like he’s trying to take everything Jonah has to give. Like he’s trying to destroy him. Like he’s trying to kill him before he comes in him.

But he won’t, because he can’t. Because Jonah keeps running, and falling, and getting back up.

Again, and again. _Leading._ Predator; prey. Prey; predator.

Jonah wonders if Mordechai knows which of them is which. He wonders if Mordechai _knows._

Because prey is destined to die. And Jonah Magnus is going to live forever.

Mordechai’s cock strikes him deep, and Jonah’s eyes roll back into his skull. He feels himself smiling, baring teeth of his own– And then he’s sinking down, down, down.

Long live the king.


End file.
